by L. A. Meyer
“Yes, Miss, but when you consider the alternative—a cold and quiet room for the rest of your days, with no joy, no good company, nothing . . . And unlike the old, retired sea captain of yore, not even the comfort of sitting with spyglass and looking out over the harbor to gaze upon the shipping therein . . .”
“Yes, I suppose, still . . .”
“. . . and the man is quite a skilled musician, as you will very shortly see. He plays a variety of musical instruments, and he does not confine himself to sailors’ songs. He generally takes his dinners with the Captain and is good company. He does not dwell on his infirmity.”
“I shall have to get near him.”
“Well, knowing you as I do, I don’t think that could be avoided. I also think it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
I nod and look over at my seabag.
“Could I have my toothbrush, Higgins? I fear my tusks have grown quite green and mossy. I can conceal it in my vest.”
“Of course, Miss,” he says, putting my bag on the dresser top and opening it. He pulls out my toothbrush and hands it to me. “But I think you ought not to take anything else. Not just yet.”
Again I nod in agreement, thinking how naked I feel without my shiv tucked in my vest.
“But it is good to see you presentable again, Miss.”
I run my hands over my weskit, smoothing it down.
“You cannot know how good it feels to be clean again, Higgins, and to feel your kind touch.” I sigh. “But I must be going. There is much to do. Can you have one of the men bring the bolts of white and black cloth down to the laundry? Good. And many needles and much thread. Scissors, too. I must get my girls out of their rags. Till later, then, and thanks for everything . . . Oh, and one more thing—if you could, have the Lady Gay handy during tomorrow’s singing and dancing.”
As we exit Higgins’s cabin, I’m startled to see Captain Laughton standing at the long mess table, talking to First Mate Ruger. Upon seeing us emerge, the Captain breaks into a wide grin, while the First Mate dons a deep scowl.
“Ha!” barks the Captain. “I thought I heard the lovely tinkle of female laughter from in there, you dog! Doing a bit of early scouting of our tender cargo, eh, Higgins? Good man! Carry on!”
I quell my impulse to drop into a low curtsy and instead put on the scared big-eyed waif look and scurry away like any scullery maid who suddenly finds herself in the fearful presence of the high and mighty.
I feel Ruger’s eyes burning into my back as I scurry, and I know one thing . . .
He ain’t fooled.
Chapter 20
James Fletcher, Convict
Onboard the Ship Cerberus
London
Jacky Faber
Figment of My Fevered Imagination
Dear Jacky,
I have learned from a far-from-reliable source that instead of your being hanged, you have been taken for Transportation to New South Wales. I do not know whether or not this is true, but I choose to believe that you are still alive and will continue these spiritual correspondences.
Not only were the Frog and the Toad wrong in thinking that we should soon be joined by other prisoners, but they were also deprived of the satisfaction of soundly beating me in return for almost strangling the Toad. For as soon as we returned from the head, new guards appeared, and I was immediately taken off the Hulk and thrown into a cart with several others. The Amphibian Brothers were noticeably chagrined at being denied the opportunity to bloody me up some. As I was being hustled away, I wished them the worst possible fortune and expressed my fervent hope that they both would rot in hell very soon.
After a short ride through the seedier parts of the city—yes, I know, your “beloved old turf”—we arrived at the side of a fat merchant ship and we shuffled onboard, hands manacled, fetters on our feet.
“Name?” asked the dusty little man at the table at the head of the brow when it was my turn to stand before him.
“James Fletcher.”
The man scratches my name into his ledger and smiles. “Ah, yes, our defrocked Royal Navy Lieutenant. We have heard of you. Welcome to the Cerberus. Behave yourself and you might live to see New South Wales.”
I look out over the harbor and say nothing.
“Bo’sun, take him down to the maximum security cell and shackle him tightly. This man is not to be trusted.”
Well, it’s nice to get some sort of respect, anyway. The Bo’sun shoves his club into my back and says, “Git along, you.”
I start toward the hatch leading down, but a man sidles up next to me—a scruffy little man who says, “Come down a bit, ’ave ye, Sor? Ain’t likely to be bindin’ up some poor cove t’ the grating for a proper whippin’ now are ye, Sor? Nay, ye ain’t, and ye ain’t likely t’ be, since I’m the bloke what works the maximum security cell, and ye ain’t—”
“Enough of that,” says a man on the quarterdeck. I look up to see a man dressed as a Mate, or whatever they call the so-called officers on these scows. “No need for that. Just take him down, Weisling.”
I survey the deck and call up to him, “No guns, Sir? How can you hope to defend yourself from pirates?”
“We will have an escort—a British Navy sloop of war.”
Hmmm, I say to myself. At least some protection there . . . And then—
“James! James Fletcher!”
The call comes from the dock and I look to the Officer.
He says, “Let him answer.”
I am allowed to go to the rail. I look over to see that a coach has pulled up, and two men are standing beside it, gazing upward.
“James! Brother! Know that all legal efforts are being bent to overturn this miscarriage of justice!” shouts one, and “We shall not rest!” echoes the other.
“Thank you, Brother . . . Father,” I say. The door to the carriage opens, and a woman gets out. I say one more word, but not to her.
“Jacky?”
“She has been sentenced to Life in New South Wales, and has already been taken off,” says my father.
“Thank you, Father,” I manage to reply. “That has removed a great weight from my mind.”
The woman points a finger up at me and shouts, “If you had never laid eyes on that wretched girl, you wouldn’t be having this awful trouble.”
Yes, Mother, but I did . . .
I turn from the rail and say to the Bo’sun, “Take me to my berth, if you please.” The brute grins and prods me along. Before I go below, I ask of the Officer who had shown me some small degree of kindness, “Your name, Sir?”
“I am Mr. Hollister, Second Mate,” he says. “Take him below.”
He turns away and I am shoved toward a hatchway, where I duck, to enter the gloom of the hold. I climb down a ladder, go through a heavy door, and enter a cell. The room is roughly square, about twenty feet across, with a wide shelf running along the three sides away from the door. Attached to the bulkhead above that shelf are rows of dangling neck manacles, eighteen inches apart. The deck below is an open wood grating, and I hear men shuffling about below, their chains rattling. It does not take too much wit to surmise that this ship was once a slaver . . . and, in a way, it still is.
I notice that three long lengths of chain run along the deck in front of each shelf. I am put on the shelf and the neck manacle is put around my neck by the Bo’sun, snapped shut, and then locked. My ankle shackles are then attached and locked to the long chain at my feet. A few more cackling giggles from Weisling . . . “Aye, and I heard yer little lady ’as been shipped off, too. My, my, I expects she’s bein rogered right now by two, maybe three, good honest jailers just like me . . . Now ain’t that a fine thought, guv’nor? That little bitch finally gettin what’s comin’ to her? Ah, yes, just think on it, guv’nor, just think . . .”
Yes, Jacky, I recognized him right off as that low-life steward from the Wolverine, the one you named the Weasel and so forcefully put in his place. Then the outer door is slammed shut, and I am left alone to try to sooth
e my seething mind.
Oh, yes, Weasel, I will think, but what I will think on is just how much pleasure I will get from choking the miserable life out of you when it comes to that . . . And believe me, you little turd, it will come to that.
Enough. I lean my back against the wall and try to think as you would have thought, dear one, if you were the one incarcerated here. After all, you did escape from the brig on the Wolverine, and under my very nose, too. Could I hope to be as clever as you in this circumstance? I look about and try to think as you would. All right, then.
Item one: The long chains mean that we will sometimes have the neck manacles off and will be shuffled along with only the wrist and ankle shackles to restrain us—the line to the head, food lines, exercise times, up topside for some fresh air. After all, they don’t want us to die, because they will be getting a head price for each of us delivered alive to the penal colony.
Item two: That idiot Weasel proudly carries the keys to our chains on his belt, thinking it enhances his status. Good. Let him think that.
Item three: That Mr. Hollister, the Second Mate of this bark, showed a modicum of kindness to me back there on the deck. Duly noted.
Item four: It seems that—
My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a great commotion outside, and the outer door swings in. The Bo’sun and two other hard-looking types muscle in a group of bound prisoners, men who are putting up a mighty howl.
“Go straight to hell, English scum! A curse on all of yiz, ye cowardly dogs! Aye, you and your whore of a mither, too! You may bind our hands but ye kin no bind our spirits, British pigs! Ye kin no hang us all!”
The men are clubbed as they are pushed in and manacled, but that does not diminish their voices in the least. They curse and damn their captors to the nether regions of hell and beyond. They seem oddly familiar to me . . . Then I spot a particular one in their midst, and all becomes clear.
That lad is Ian McConnaughey, and the other newly arrived Irishmen are former members of the crew of your late privateer Emerald.
What the hell . . . ?
Dearest Jacky, though I am suffering Durance Vile, I fear that you are suffering worse, and I cannot bear the thought. I can take the pain upon my own person, but I fear that the pain and anguish you are suffering is far, far more severe . . .
Jaimy
Chapter 21
Hooray, it’s Saturday, which means holiday routine, and all are excited, especially me. Wheee!
I know, I know, Jaimy. What right have I to laugh and cavort about when I am condemned to life imprisonment in a far distant land? How could I possibly feel any joy, momentary though it might be, when I have no idea of the trouble you are going through? I know, I know, but it is my nature to be cheerful. And I realize, too, that if I curl up in a tight ball of misery, self-pity, and woeful silence, I will never get out of this mess, which means that I would never, ever see you again . . .
The Captain’s table is being set up, and there will be singing and dancing after the noon meal, with an extra tot of rum for all, ’cept for the Under Sixteens—and except for me, too, because I have taken a vow to partake of spirits never again, Demon Rum having once almost been the ruin of me. But I start to think about getting into my wine stores, yes, I do, and I know where they are. The thought of a nice Bordeaux makes the spit well up in my mouth and . . . Enough of that, you . . .
Yesterday, my Newgate girls and I had been in a positive fury of sewing, getting us ready. After much discussion we decided the easiest, and quickest, way to dress ourselves appropriately would be to copy the serving-girl outfit that I’d worn at the Lawson Peabody School. The black skirts with matching vests and white blouses are easy to cut and to sew, and the tight barmaid/milkmaid costume shows that we know our place—no fancy Empire dresses here—and it sets us off from the other Crews, who tend more to the flouncybouncy sort of thing.
Another advantage of our new outfits is that the short skirts, which come only to the knee, are excellent for getting about the ship . . . and for giving a bit of a petticoat flash when that sort of thing seems called for. I’ll not be pimping out my girls, but we are being taken to Australia as breeders, and I’ll want them to make the best matches possible.
It is late June and the air is warm, so we won’t need undershirts. There will be new drawers all around, though, with flounces, and we’ll wear white mob caps with trimming of black thread to match the skirts.
It is a veritable orgy of cutting, tucking, and fitting. Mary Wade, being a former street urchin, is, of course, useless, so we use her as dressmaker’s dummy. Esther, having been a milliner’s apprentice, is expert in sewing. Molly and Ann and the rest bring what skills they have to the job.
While we were busy with the dressmaking task, I insisted on baths all around, but they didn’t take much forcing on that. We finished and proudly pronounced ourselves ready for public viewing.
After the ship’s crew, as well as the various ladies’ Crews, have been given their food and drink, Captain Laughton comes out onto the deck, resplendent in a fine uniform of blue trimmed with white turnouts. He bows grandly to the cheers of his crew and sits himself down. Close by his left knee, a Judy of the Liverpool Crew places her bottom on the deck and leans her face against his knee. On his other side, a Lizzie, one of Elizabeth Barnsley’s bunch, assumes a similar position. There are assorted Tartans about the table, as well, attending the Messrs. Seabrook, Gibson, and Hinckley. Apparently Higgins has done his job of procuring—or, rather, providing—appropriate company . . . It’s all in how one says it, ain’t it?
The army man, Major Johnston, is seated there as well, splendid in scarlet, with a pleasant look upon his face, although he does not appear to have an escort—at least not yet. He lets his eyes roam over the horde of females who come upon the deck. Then, when I bring my girls up into the light and array them along the left of the fore hatch, which will become the stage, I note that his eye has stopped its roving and has fixed upon Esther Abrahams, whose eyes are demurely cast down, easily radiant in her natural beauty. Hmmmm . . .
Higgins is there with his assistants, who put much wine about in front of the officers. Grrrr . . . all of my best . . . Oh, God, there’s that Madeira I picked up in . . . never mind . . . but grrr all the same.
Oh, well, spirits are high and that’s the way I like ’em. Higgins catches my eye and looks down at the fiddlecase next to the quarterdeck stairs. I nod.
After settling himself and getting some of my fine cheeses and truffles down his neck, the Captain calls out, “Shantyman! A song, if you please!”
The Shantyman advances to the foremast, head up, his stick before him. He has been onboard several days now and does not appear to need the arm of a guiding seaman. His stick raps against the foot of the foremast and he turns to face the drum that he knows will have been set there in front of him. He puts his hands on the drumhead and takes up the mallets he finds there and begins to pound out the basic rhythm.
One, two, three, and boom . . . boom . . .
I pull out my pennywhistle and get ready myself.
His voice rings out . . .
From Liverpool to Glasgow a-rovin I went
To stay in that country it was my intent,
But girls and strong whiskey, like other damned fools,
I soon was transported back to Liverpool.
A great joyous cry goes up from Mrs. Berry’s Liver-pudlians arrayed to the starboard side—those of them who were not already by the side of some amorous seaman, that is—and all swing into the chorus . . .
So it’s row, row Bullies, row!
Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow!
This was the self-same song that I sang on the tabletop at Dovecote Hall that night after the triumph of the Sheik winning the race at the Downs, when we had this glorious ball and I was so completely happy and Clarissa Worthington Howe plied me with sweet Kentucky bourbon and I loved it and I loved her so much and then I disgraced myself before all and su
ndry with my drunken display and had to leave that lovely place under a cloud of shame.
Shaking those sorry thoughts out of my mind, I place pennywhistle to lips and play along with the very familiar melody.
The Shantyman, upon hearing the notes from my whistle, inclines his head toward me, the source of the new sound, smiles slightly, and then goes to the next verse.
I shipped on the Alaska well out in the bay,
Waitin’ for a fair wind to get under way.
The sailors all drunk, and their backs is all sore,
The whiskey’s all done and we can’t get no more!
Groans from the crowd on the thought of no more whiskey, and the chorus is sung again, and it strikes me that many of the men on this ship have sailed with the Shantyman before and have formed a choir of sorts behind him and bellow out the well-known words with great gusto. The Crews pick up on the chorus, too, and, having some three hundred voices, untrained or not, singing in unison is something wonderful to hear.
The Shantyman swings in again, the boom . . . boom . . . boom . . . of his drum never wavering.
